


in pandemonium her veins and pulses doth tremble

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Ambiguity, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blasphemy, Deal with a Devil, Demons, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, F/F, Fever Dreams, Hell, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Art, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Poetry, Moral Ambiguity, One Shot, Prose Poem, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 06, Sexual Tension, Supernatural Elements, The Devil is a Sneaky Bastard, Welcome to HELL WELCOME TO HELL, prose, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22867618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Yes, something about this place seems off, but Vera Bennett stands her ground. She never leaves, never backs down, when her job is at stake and she feels indignant (and perhaps a little holy) in the presence of Governor Ferguson. It doesn't matter that they're in Hell.
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Joan Ferguson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	in pandemonium her veins and pulses doth tremble

**Author's Note:**

> This is a highly self-indulgent piece as I wanted to compose a more supernatural fic featuring these two with Joan acting as the embodiment of the Devil. This piece was strongly inspired by John Milton's Paradise Lost, Dante’s Alghieri’s The Divine Comedy, and the film, The Devil’s Advocate; therefore, there will be various references to the following works of art. I’ve incorporated some lines and motifs from The Devil’s Advocate with a focus on the relationship Kevin (Keanu Reeve’s character) has with hotshot lawyer John Milton, Al Pacino’s character; these references are acknowledged in the end notes to refrain from spoiling this fic from you.
> 
> The title comes from combining references from The Divine Comedy and Paradise Lost.

> “I want all of the blame: your love is tin, faith is thin.”
> 
> _VoDevil_ – Marilyn Manson
> 
> “They'll hunt you then they'll haunt you.  
>  Their anger has them under a spell.  
>  Their hatred is like a poison that makes them feel again.”
> 
> _When Anger Turns To Honey_ – Chelsea Wolfe
> 
> “Now that I'm in, there's no letting go,  
>  And your emptiness begins.  
>  Once I grip onto your mind and soul.  
>  Your brightness starts to dim.  
>  Sin after sin, you won't feel no more.”
> 
> _Mind Games_ – Sickick

During the overnight shift, three AM slows to a crawl, stalled and sentenced to some liminal space. Floating, gliding, down the vast halls, a mousy woman operates on auto-pilot. The underpaid, underappreciated Deputy Governor carries through the minutiae. Her militant bun mimics a tarnished halo. Unable to ignore the sensation of someone watching her, Miss Bennett glances over her shoulder. Paranoia causes her to clench her jaw until she dares to move forward. Vera chalks it up to her imagination run rampant. A whiff of brimstone in the hall overwhelms her senses. Did the scent of sulfur trail after her? 

Defiling perceptions of human reality, a monochromatic world contains dull twinges and hues of teal. Along the way, Vera finds herself beguilingly lost. Maybe she took a wrong turn, chose the wrong cellblock to patrol. Having strayed from the path of righteousness, her Virgil is hidden in this maze, though soon the Governor will lead the way.

Beneath the sterile scent of antiseptic and bleach therein lies the faint undercurrent of ambrosia. Another late-night ritual carries her to the point of no return. In a case of vertigo, the Gates of Hell come to light and seal behind her.

Spotted by the divine and unholy, Vera Bennett crosses the threshold and closes the door. Habits compel her to lock the door, the impressive death-shadow of a woman now cast over her. In a world gone Helter Skelter, Sovereign Supreme clasps her hands before her midsection. Although feigning a state of idleness and preoccupied by prison protocol, she counts the seconds until her Deputy’s arrival. She is the Panopticon: seeing all, hearing all, knowing all.

The Governor’s role - her title, her shiny black chair - is sacrosanct to say the least. The desk remains her veritable throne. The leather she nestles in acts as a palpable ruse for her throne composed of Tartarean sulfur and cruel, seething fire. Ambition serves her well, her pencils a metaphorical scepter.

Swept along the tides of confusion, Vera notes the differences within Joan’s private sanctum. Unreality thrives in this corporate setting. Somehow, the office seems different. Assumes a sinister shade. In this sacrilegious distortion, there is no cross to invert; the sight would be too tacky for Ferguson’s tastes.

A somber note hangs in the air.

Normally, the Governor rises above materiality, her title synonymous with power incarnate, the totality of destruction, the promise of complete and utter annihilation. Beyond the framed diplomas and certificates celebrating achievement, a small marble statue mimicking Rodin’s _Eternal Springtime_ comes into focus. In this Miltonian paradise, a pair of horns project as a mere shadow against the wall. Yes, something about this place seems off. 

Shades of grey muddy the black and white binary, now the red saturated color scheme is a bit too much to tolerate for human eyes.

God is absent here.

A golden frame commemorates a fiery moment in Hell. A dark, cunning serpent coils around a woman caught in the throes of Saint Theresa's ecstasy. In contrast, Rodin's influence looms over a man clutching himself. Behind and beyond these dim, gray bodies writhing in agony, Hell's delights promise a far more wicked atonement. The painting appears to shift and move depicting such sublime torture. A tense dissonance in the painting speaks to the growing gap between mentor and disciple. Franz von Stuck’s _Inferno_ peers behind Governor Ferguson’s authoritarian stance. All this allegory is not lost on a once-faithful Deputy.

Her attention shifts to the crackling flames that eat a few charred logs.

Since when did a fireplace appear in the office?

_That wasn’t there before, was it?_

“Do you care for it?” Joan goads in a guttural intonation, condemned to a mere whisper, a glimpse of a grin fleeting albeit present.

A contemptuous snort.

At the end of the yellow brick road, poor jaded Dorothy, devoid of innocence, encounters the enigmatic Wizard.

“Have you asked me here to cast your judgment. Is that it?” Vera fires. The lines in her forehead crease.

With her hair pulled taut against her scalp save for a few fine, frizzy strands that wriggle free, she can’t deny the red-hot anger that flows through her veins. Those pearly blues shine brighter than any star.

Arcane in her ways, the Governor wags a mocking finger whilst tutting. Once seated, now standing, she fastens the bottom button to her suit jacket. In the gloomy light, the Governor’s hands appear a sallow, sickly gray. The click of Joan’s heels resembles the stomp of hooves. Reassured by the authoritative, divine right, hubris stands in the way. In the deafening silence, Vera hears her rabbit heart offer up a weak beat.

Tension grows as surely as the rift that widens between them. Joan rounds the corner, her behind leaning against the ledge, a few feet away from Vera’s grounded stance. Her meticulous fingers straighten her silver placard. Separated by the desk as a mere obstacle, their placement in the room allows for an off-beat replication of Titian’s _Sacred and Profane Love_.

“Surely, you’re familiar with determinism, Vera. Your will belongs to me; every decision you have made has led to this moment, this encounter.”

“I’m not leaving,” Deputy Governor Bennett insists. “I chose to be here.”

At long last, the mouse speaks up for herself. Gone is the querulous tremor to her voice, replaced by newly found boldness. Vera knows there is something wrong with herself. She has fostered that coldness from within and let it take root into something terrible. In the mirror, she hardly recognizes herself.

“I’ve put you on a pedestal. I’ve revered and I’ve feared you. Not anymore. I’m not who I used to be.”

What an ostentatious display. _My, such a bold woman._ Joan admires this metamorphosis though she’ll deny it.

Above the court of law, the connoisseur of sin disregards those empty threats. Glamour serves as a palpable ruse. Up close in the confrontational style, a golden glow ignites her abysmal stare, deepening to the shade of dried blood. Joan glides forward to disrupt whatever distance once existed between them. Her chin perches on her Deputy’s shoulder, touch a means to control.

The arm wrapped around her waspish waist hisses or at least, Vera thinks that she must be delirious, she **must** be seeing things.

“You lust for retribution, dear Vera. You want Gambaro to suffer.”

The corruptor corrupts and recognizes that glimmer of darkness in Vera. So they’re both crooked. A thrill shoots through her upon the self-discovery of her own naughtiness.

“They were right about you,” Vera admits in faded reservation, her shoulders wilted from Joan’s touch that weighs her down.

Handled with the wrath of an Old Testament prophet, she openly expresses disdain towards Will Jackson and Matthew Fletcher. Disregards them with a little, impious scoff. 

Discipline precedes destruction. Two fingers glide along her mandible, reeling her forward, and Vera takes the bait. With her thumb pressing against the underside of her jaw, Joan inspects the impact left from the harsh slap she inflicted earlier to maintain the integrity of beautiful, kind Jianna - so sweet, so human – no, Anderson, she recalls: not her patron saint, Jianna.

She hums, her head askew.

“Red is an exquisite shade on you.”

The comment boils Vera’s blood, the inference akin to a doctor’s blasé scrutiny. Irked, Vera jerks away.

“I don’t appreciate your machinations, Joan.”

Vera clutches Joan’s bicep, but doesn’t pull away.

“I know all your fears. Knowledge is power, dear Vera.” 

This credence cements her plasticity.

Once, the Devil had a soul. Now, she’ll rip out what’s left of Vera’s as a tiny morsel.

“I know every wicked thought that crosses your mind.” Her thumb traces her exposed, vulnerable throat. “I am your messiah, your dark savior, your Governor.”

There is such an absurdity in the internal questioning debating if she has been hypnotized.

Despite Miss Westfall’s heeds, Will’s warnings, and Fletch’s cautionary tales, she yields to the Governor. With hungry teeth, she draws in her bottom lip. A flick of the tongue stirs that roaring fire in her belly, slipping lower, and making her entire body tingle. She craves her heat, her heart, the magnitude of her attention and fascination. Sometimes, it’s better to be damned.

Again and again, Deputy Governor Bennett abides by Ferguson’s law, her utmost rule. A tremor follows a trill of excitement. Despite being divided, she shudders. A firm, steady hand spiders along the inside of Vera’s thigh. Vera belongs to this prison, this woman, might as well sign away her damned soul.

If this is perdition, then maybe she doesn’t want to leave.

“Make the sacrifice and give yourself to me,” Joan demands, her voice as sweet as honey, but never as sincere.

A sturdy arm snakes around Vera’s shoulders. Her ruinous touch indicates amorous intent. In that iron hold, she feels whole. Feels complete. Here, Vera seeks out annihilation. This fever dream comes true. Unable to resist the persistent pulse between her legs, Vera bends backwards for her. Allows herself to be dipped and swung about. In an act of sole possession anointed by the Devil herself, a brush of lips accentuates her cheek.

For support, Vera falls onto the desk, gazing up at a woman who has torn her asunder and rebuilt her as some shiny, new machine. In familiar reverence, she cups Joan’s cheek and feels ice like a pulse and body temperature are strangely absent. She'll torture herself later.

Seduced by blasphemous thoughts in a dazed trance, her head manages to perform a fantastic carousel spin that renders her dizzy, if not bewildered. Looking directly at her maker’s face, Vera notices how sclera tinged crimson becomes vanta-black. The horizontal pupil of a goat, though it changes, becomes consumed by another infernal shade. Illuminated by the shadows, a broken halo comes to light.

Countless have fallen to the mouth of madness. Look at Spiteri, look at Fletch’s retreat in the hopeful anticipation of leading a quiet life. There is an inherent wrongness to the situation at hand. The stomp of a cloven hoof, the ancient hiss of a serpent, the dying purr of a cat – some chimera amalgamation – invokes this dream-like space. How fucked the scenario is.

A carefully woven illusion falls apart at the seams. Prison, after all, is rife with corruption. Sin oozes out of every brick that forms this cursed edifice. The screams of the damned are muffled by the bulletproof glass of the office’s windows. What a symphony the cries of the wretched and the damned make. Flames crackle and snap; Miss Bennett banishes her fear. Casts terror aside in favor of the statuesque gargoyle of a woman attempting to intimidate her.

“What do you really look like?” She questions, afraid to know the truth, but desperate for confirmation (and affirmation).

To which Joan smiles.

“A horror you cannot possibly conceive.”

An erotic thrill shoots through her.

“Hell isn’t as terrible as you have imagined, Vera. I’ve no soul. My bed is made of bones, but you see what you want to see: red satin sheets, a pillow stuffed with goose-feather.”

With a voice as smooth as vodka, waxing poetics and mere philosophy, summer heat comes creeping in. Above the courtyard, dusky clouds roll in. Thunder rattles with the promise of a tempestuous storm. Outside, the drizzle becomes a monsoon. 

_Is that hail?_ Miss Bennett shakes off the thought.

With her views tarnished by Christianity, the old, recycled motifs grow tired.

Now comprised of dark basaltic stone, Wentworth transforms before her very eyes. Offers a slice of pandemonium. Smoke causes her eyes to water, to tear, Vera swallows in discomfort. The cracks in the tile resemble minuscule fissures parting to expose molten rock and lava glowing an unnatural hue. This is _her_ temple, _her_ place of worship.

So **this** is Hell.

“Worship me and you’ll receive your reward.” 

A questing finger traces the pretty bow that forms her mouth.

It must be better to burn than to freeze.

Biting the bullet, it’s no longer a task to convey herself.

“Let me decide, let me choose,” Vera demands in mounting frustration. Her stomach flipflops, somersaults, until she regains composure. Uses what her maker taught her. 

Reenacting some nightmarish rendition of Gustav Klimt’s _The Kiss_ , Joan covers her with her body. Cloaked up in that inky embrace, Vera finds herself swallowed by darkness. The sovereign architect murmurs against her still-beating chest. Some archaic whisper, indecipherable and foreign, goes unanswered.

“I’m still loyal to you” means “I want you”

Deputy Governor Bennett dies a little in that sordid embrace though you can’t take the soft-hearted girl out of that newly molded prison. An urgency accompanies the chase, the sense of completion never leaves her fulfilled.

They grapple, struggling with the assigned roles and the treason that threatened their working relationship. Reassuring hands seize her waist. Cool palms caress her burning body. This cunning serpent wraps around her. Pins her to the desk. Joan gorges herself on the lamb. Aroused by the employed fear tactics, Vera vaguely wonders, _What’s happening to me?_

“I’m warming my hands on your talent.”

Joan’s palm thumps against her chest.

Animals succumb to their base desires. There is a grand submission in inching closer to the fire. She haunts and she hunts only for a willing captive to fall into her arms. That cunning, lascivious mouth tastes of ruin, treason, red wine. Vera tastes her own ruin, her undoing, as she falls apart in the embrace of the Morningstar. Teeth tug and prod at her malleable bottom lip. Their tongues meet and the beast comes out. Joan, the Devil, whoever she might be, grazes Vera’s wandering, questing tongue with her sharp, white teeth. Even the wicked can be holy and reverent.

She’ll fuck the Devil and whimper out a “please.”

Perhaps Vera expects ceremonial robes and a more horrifying (fright) sight. The gaping twin wounds on her broad back hardened, nubs of bones remain as a homage to the fall.

Having loathed and despised this woman of many cursed names, Vera can’t quite seem to quit this chemical fix.

“What do I call you?”

“I’ve many names.”

Belial. Asmodai. Lucifer. Satan. The Devil.

“Just Joan, then.”

She doesn’t want a nightmare, only wants a fantasy, a dream to placate her.

“Pray to me and I’ll grant you what’s due,” Joan husks.

Such high demands threaten to suck the life right out of her. Her tongue flicks behind her ear before teeth precociously nip at the lobe. The Devil grins against her pliant mouth. She swallows her up like a great, big pill. In retaliation, Vera bites back; from this, she could die of thirst. Although Vera isn’t a Vasilisa, she will steal her death anyhow.

Vera nestles into those arms offering her a home or a grave. Undressed with her hair mussed, she swallows the fable fed to her.

Resorting to animal instincts, a scorching, hungry tongue infiltrates her mouth. A scorpion strike intends to worship and to adore. Drowning in her grip, pressed against the tailored uniform, she meets unbridled passion with a wet, insatiable hunger of her own. The taste of iron infiltrates her mouth, rich and inviting. As if to cauterize the wound, she runs her tongue along Vera’s split, bottom lip.

Bite-marks form a blueprint across her skin. The intent to mark, maim, and claim contains the fervor of many a demented fury. Her tongue traces the hollow of her clavicle. An asp suckles at her breast though Vera thrives from the administrated poison. With the affliction marking her chest, Vera savors the burn. Joan vows to chew Vera up and spit her out in the Maleboge like Judas, like Brutas, like Cassius.

Where is the forked tongue?

Demanding entry, she licks at her lips. Although Joan’s ministrations are vicious, if not calculated, there exists an undercurrent of tenderness. She kisses with the ferocity of a mad dog. Swallowed by the heat of coals, she bites and she nips. How sweet the blood of the lamb tastes. Consumed by a savage heat, it’s so very foolish of Vera to ask for more.

Caught in the throes of rapture, Joan coils around her, akin to a python, she revels in this pyrrhic victory. She covets over her like pure treasure, stolen yet restored to its former glory.

Admiration for such power, such zeal, such fortitude, goads Vera to react. Give her a cult and Vera will drink the wine.

“Let me see you,” Vera begs like an insolent child.

Scorching, searing, send her down the River Styx. Her tongue caresses her fingers, taking two in. She tastes soot and impending ruin.

Ravished and torn apart to reveal her wants, her weaknesses, the very edifice of Vera Bennett’s being comes undone. She feels dismantled and reassembled, lost in a lustful haze. The steady thrum of arousal builds. A vestal virgin no longer, Vera questions her sanity. That scrap of innocence amongst filth, ruin, and decay succumbs to the desire to be devoured. For a moment as good as gold, Vera sells her soul.

They return to the desk, the chair where it all began with that revolutionary debrief.

Face to face, Vera sinks into her lap, refusing to be fucked from behind. Her skirt hitches ever higher, her nylons snared. The crimson glow plumes her skin, washed in the grim, unsettling (unkind) prison lights. Foreplay has set her aflame. Marveling at the divine touch, she finds herself filled with the unholy spirit. Unbeknownst to her, she plays the role of a harbinger of ruin, wetting her lips and undulating her hips.

“King me,” Vera beckons with unruly laughter. No crown of bones adorn her head.

Oh, to dwell in hell.

A calm, derisive hand snakes around her thigh. Wanton and unabashed, Vera grinds against Joan’s palm.

To chew on her lips, chop her to bits in this swirling, chaotic folie à deux, Vera samples the fruit of indulgence and temptation.

Nails scrape her collarbone, pushing lightly against the soft, thin skin above. Susceptible to the inevitable moral rot, Vera ponders if she has killed the best parts of herself. Engaged in the danse macabre, no skeleton holds her while they pitch their own oratorio. Joan is made of body and flesh and woefully sinful curves. Here and now, she could make a reliquary of Vera. One day, she’ll decay. No, Bennett will never be an incorrupt corpse of a saint entombed in glass; without Joan’s interference, she will rot. The promise of a little _memento mori_ nips at her pulsing, chirping throat.

Revelations seldom promise resolution. An altar, a tribute, and a sacrifice end the scene.

With a gasp, a woman stirs awake. Cool sweat sticks to her forehead. Her ponytail hangs limp stuck to the curve of her back. The ringing in her ears displaces her. Feeling feverish, Governor Bennett bolts upright, the sheets pooling around her slim waist. The sweat-soaked sheets cling to her body, entombed by every misdeed. After recuperating from this nightmare, her body sticks to the covers come the Witching Hour. Temples throbbing, Vera shifts with a headache and a dry mouth. Times like these makes her feel unworthy of the crowns. The ache in her hips serves as a fatal reminder. What a wicked dream to have her feel this way – playing out like some melodic memory.

Camilla attempts to call from beyond the void. The tapping on the glass commands a look. _Let me in_.

From the depth of Vera’s chest, the telltale heart leaps. She experiences a scorpion’s sting. Meekly, she lifts the hem of her grey cotton shirt to reveal a trinity of scratches adorning her ribcage. Wetting her lips, her nervous stare flickers to the window by her nightstand. Her palm grinds over sleepy, bleary eyes. The surge of panic never leaves her.

_Dead, she’s dead._

Close to the edge, it doesn’t stop her from looking.

**Author's Note:**

> Lines and motifs from The Devil’s Advocate include the shifting appearance of Joan's office, the acknowledgment of Vera’s “greatest fears” and “I’m just warming my hands on your talent.” The piece hanging in Joan's office is Franz von Stuck's Inferno (1908). You can find it in the MET; I'm quite fond of it. I always make sure to admit it when I’m there. Here’s the link to read up on the artwork: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/749639


End file.
